Dream A Little Dream of Me
by luvscharlie
Summary: In a post-war world, Pansy Parkinson and Terry Boot both have careers they never really imagined themselves working in, and find a strange alliance in one another… though not always consciously. Terry/Pansy


_Dream A Little Dream of Me _ by Luvscharlie

_Warnings: Smut in fantasy scenes. _

_**A/N****:** Originally written for idea_of_sarcasm at the 2011 smutty_claus exchange on Live Journal who asked for vanilla (which I find exceptionally hard in a fic exchange that smut is a requirement), men who are respectful of women, not rushing them into a relationship and strong women. Thanks to lunalovepotter for the beta work.  
_

_Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives. -William Dement_

"Okay. Yeah, class, hold it down. I mean, I'm trying to—Oh why bother?"

Those were all the words Pansy heard as she was approaching the classroom door on the fifth floor in the western corridor with her mop in hand. And really, it was a wonder she could hear those over the roar of the students. She peeked her head in the door of the Muggle Studies classroom to see a disgruntled former-Ravenclaw—she thought his name was Boob or something like that—running his hand through his messy blond hair and coming away with at least three spit-soaked bits of parchment in his hand. The roar of the students was deafening. Some were wrestling, a good many of the girls were passing parchment notes, and one boy was seeing how far he could stick a quill up his nose without drawing blood (sharp end first, the twit!)

Poor bloke, the instructor appeared to be at his wit's end. His glasses weren't even sitting straight upon his nose, which Pansy thought made him look a bit like an absent-minded professor... which he may well be, now that she thought about it. He looked as if he might cry or kick something at any moment.

Bless him, he even tried to be shocking to get the students' attention. "Why the fuck should I care that no one's listening to a single thing I say? Stay stupid. Stay uninformed. Stay the little loud-mouthed morons that you are. See if I care if when you get out into the real world, you can't work a toaster." He even kicked his rubbish bin for emphasis. And not a single student so much as gave him an inquisitive look. Pansy looked at her mop. If he kicked over that rubbish bin, he'd be cleaning it up himself even if she had to brain him with the mop to make it happen.

Pansy, taking the high road (but still not ruling out that braining him thing if rubbish got tipped out of the bin), stepped inside the door and propped herself up in the frame. "Is that any way for an esteemed Hogwarts professor to behave, Professor Boob? Honestly, even the janitor knows better than to use foul language in front of the students." She nodded toward the mop in her hand. _Even if they are the foulest fucking little creatures around._See, that didn't count because she only said it in her head.

Unfortunately for Terry, _that_got the students' attention and they all burst into gales of laughter. The bell to dismiss class rang at that moment, and every single student who exited said a polite (albeit giggly) goodbye to "Professor Boob". There was a continuous litany of "Goodbye, Professor Boob" and "See you tomorrow, Professor Boob" and even a "Till Tomorrow, Titty Man". That one made Pansy snigger too. At least Slytherin House's students still maintained a slight penchant for trouble-making. Good for them.

"Well, thanks a bloody fucking lot for that!" Terry screeched, but only after pushing past Pansy to look down the corridor and make certain all of his students were outside of earshot. He pushed past her again to go back to his desk and glare in her general direction.

"Oh, don't mention it, Professor—boy, that's an unfortunate name you have there, Boob. I can't believe the sprogs don't give you grief for that. You know, I'd expect a lot more from them than a single 'titty man' comment. The youth these days have so little imagination." Her mop went from a mop to a broom and she began sweeping up the spitballs that littered the floor. She had been fortunate to get this job at Hogwarts when Filch had passed away (and equally unfortunate enough to inherit his decrepit feline who absolutely hated her with a whiskery passion). All other children of Death Eaters had had their wands taken from them, but Headmistress McGonagall had given her a janitorial utensil with her wand hidden in the handle. Pansy still wondered sometimes if this was a blessing or a curse; McGonagall was not her biggest fan, so perhaps McGonagall had felt that a job of cleaning up after hundreds of snotty mini-wizards was just what Pansy deserved for suggesting to offer up Harry Potter as a sacrifice to the Dark Lord during that final battle. Some people really held grudges.

"BOOT! My last name is Boot, not Boob. B-O-O-T. Like the things you wear on your feet. You know, boots." His face was red and blotchy.

"Oh gods, as if!" Pansy held out her hand in "stop" fashion. "It's bad enough I'm a janitor. Not even _I'd_be ridiculous enough to wear boots. I mean, have you seen the size of this school? I'd get corns for sure, and there's nothing worse than a woman with ugly feet. I would have chosen Azkaban first."

Terry shook his head and was staring at her in a disbelieving fashion. People tended to do that sometimes when she talked and she wasn't quite sure why.

"What? Did I say something?"

"You just equated boots to prison."

Pansy nodded. "Prison for my feet. My feet didn't do anything wrong during that wretched day of battle; it was my mouth that ran away with itself?"

"You? I can't imagine?" Terry feigned disbelief. "You're so careful with your words."

"That's sarcasm, isn't it?"

Terry just rolled his eyes, sat down behind his desk and attempted to get ready for his next class.

Pansy shrugged, took her broom and continued sweeping her way down the corridor and groaning when she saw that Mrs Norris had found her. The old cat was following at a safe distance, spitting and hissing anytime Pansy got too close. Oh how that cat hated her. And for no good reason, too! Pansy filled her water dish each morning, got the best bits of fish from the kitchens to put in her dish, and really went above and beyond the call of duty in being a good pet parent. Still, the little beast acted as though Pansy was something akin to an a mangy dog… or worse, a Gryffindor. _Yick!_

That night at dinner, Pansy noticed Professor Boob at the teachers' table up front. She had to begrudgingly admit that while he was never the type she would have gone for in school—hell, she hadn't even noticed his existence, but mostly if he wasn't Draco Malfoy, she wouldn't have anyway—her grown up self found him kind of – well, cute. In a dorky kind of way. But cute, nonetheless.

She finished her night by cleaning up a muddy mess in the front foyer. Stupid Quidditch and stupid practices and stupid boys who couldn't wipe their fucking feet before traipsing all over her castle and—gasp—she was turning into a mini-Filch.

She fell into bed that night exhausted, not even bothering to get a shower first.

_She was in a classroom. Not one she recognised really, but most of the classrooms at Hogwarts looked the same and she was definitely inside the castle. Then she was seated at a table, dressed in her old uniform, that still fit her perfectly (and jiminy, her boobs looked good stretching out that jumper!), skirt hitting just above her knee, neatly pressed with sharp creases, a quill in her hand and Draco was at the desk beside her passing her a scrap of parchment. And he was lovely. He looked like he had back in fifth year, before things got bad, and there were worry lines around his mouth and dark circles beneath his eyes. He was smiling at her, and he waggled a finger that she should come here, and she went, sashaying her hips as she crawled into his lap and kissed him hard and deep… and then his glasses were digging into her face… only Draco didn't wear glasses and she dug her fingers into his blond hair, coming away with a handful of damp parchment pieces. She looked at the man upon whose lap she was sitting, and it was Professor Boob who was kissing her, making her heart beat fast and her skin tingle, and his hand was pushing its way under her skirt. He was kissing her so intensely and his hand felt so good, her thighs parted eagerly for his touch. She wanted to say his name in that breathy sort of romance novel way that women did, only she didn't know what it was, and saying Boob felt wrong. She turned so that she was astride his lap, feeling the bulge of his robes and grinding down onto him and…_

She woke up, mortified and intensely turned on. Disappointed and relieved all at once that it had ended with her dignity still intact. Then she noted that her robes were parted and her knickers and fingers were wet, and she had to reconsider how much of her dignity remained. She'd been dreaming about Boob! Boob, who wasn't remotely—okay, he was a little attractive, but not attractive enough to have her writhing and groaning in her sleep. And how dare he intrude upon her dreams! She had a good mind to climb out of bed and go to his room and thump him a good one with her broom. Or maybe she'd turn him into a frog. She wasn't sure yet. But he needed to be punished. She was off the bed and halfway to the door before she remembered that he didn't actually know he was haunting her dreams. _The bastard._This was going to keep her from hexing him, and he was probably due a good hexing.

Pansy went reluctantly back to her bed and resolved herself to dream of fluffy bunnies and bright blue skies… only she didn't. Not at all.

She dreamed of boobs in spectacles without clothes on doing all sorts of delicious things to her.

The next morning, she couldn't meet Boob's eye at breakfast. She was cleaning up yet another spill of pumpkin juice, when he walked past her, bound for his classroom.

"Good morning, Miss Parkinson," he said as he passed.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Pansy demanded. Reflexes jumping to the defensive, she readied her mop for attack.

"Um, you need a definition for someone wishing you a good morning?"

"You said it sarcastically," she defended. "You really don't intend for me to have a good day… or night… at all, do you? I know what you're up to. You can't fool me. I may not be a professor like you Boob Boy, but I'm a smart girl. Don't let the broom—" she looked at her mop— "err, mop—fool you. I won't hesitate to kick your skinny arse into next week, and I don't need a wand to do it."

Terry was backing away, wide-eyed, hands outstretched in front of him for protection. "Okay then. Rough night?"

"What do you know about my night?"

"Um, what?" He looked bewildered, and undoubtedly was.

_Way to go, Parkinson. That went well._ Boy, sarcasm was becoming her default mind-tone. It probably wasn't good if even you felt the need to be sarcastic with yourself.

Pansy took her dinner with the House-elves that evening, and she avoided the corridor that contained _his_classroom, and the worst part about it all was that she found she really did want to see him for some reason that she couldn't fathom. That dream had been pretty intense, and she couldn't stop herself wondering if the real Boob kissed nearly as well as his dreamy counterpart.

"Why are men such creeps?" Pansy demanded aloud. The poor House elf walking past her wasn't sure whether she expected an answer or if it was being scolded. It simply responded with a startled "Meep!" and scurried away.

Meep. That was a good way to define Pansy's entire state of being.

Pansy approached her bed that evening with a bit of trepidation. "I'm the boss of you," she said, with her finger-pointing at the mattress. "No dreams of dreamy professors and adorable glasses and bulges in robes that I want to rip off of skinny frames, and—oh, it's going to be a long night. I just know it."

And it was.

_**He**__was there again, the bastard. This time in a stairwell that she knew all too well from her years as a student here at Hogwarts. She'd snogged Draco Malfoy more times than she could count in that same stairwell when she was a young girl. They'd snogged and groped and went a couple of steps farther, and then she'd spend the next day doodling Pansy Antoinetta Malfoy across every scrap of parchment she'd owned. Those had been days of fanciful youth, when she'd been convinced their side (as much of a side as any girl of sixteen cares about having) was winning and she'd have all she ever wanted out of life. It wasn't even that long ago, but she had grown what seemed ages in maturity in the short passing of time._

It wasn't Draco in the corridor tonight. And a part of her knew she wasn't there either, but it felt so real when the professor, glasses askew (maybe his nose was crooked and that's why they always seemed so lopsided; and damn him, lopsided was ever so adorable), pulled her to him and backed her against the wall. His arms went around her and his knee pressed between her own in that same way that had happened in her youth during trysts with Draco, but that was where the similarities ended. The professor's hands were sure and steady, no fumbling or unsure teenage groping. When he cupped her breasts his hands were strong, his grasp confident, and she felt her back arch into him, craving more. Pansy's knees were unsteady and she was grateful for the cold stone of the wall against her back. His tongue licked its way across her lips and he kissed her, without a word of warning. The strong and silent type, it seemed, made her swoony and weak-kneed.

She grasped his shoulders, nails digging in and finding a bit of satisfaction in the noise of pain he made. She hooked one leg brazenly around his waist and took control of the kiss as he tilted his head.

"You're beautiful," he whispered.

Definitely a dream then. Pansy'd learned long ago that men never said the right thing in passionate moments. The most she'd got previously was a 'Yeah, baby, right there, ugh' or an 'open wide'. Men could be quite disgusting, but in Pansy's dreams, they were usually very knight-like, chivalrous and gallant. Sometimes she wished she could keep her eyes closed forever. It would be easier that way.

And the dream shifted and they were both standing in nothing but their unmentionables, and he pulled out the waistband of her knickers with a finger, and she felt the smooth hands of a man accustomed to books and quills and little in the way of manual labour. She wanted to say his name and guide his movements, but she still didn't know what his first name was. She stretched up on her tiptoes to urge his hand downward…

**MROWR!**

Pansy was awakened with a sexually frustrated squeal as a big ball of decrepit fur ran across her head.

"Merlin! I hate that cat. She got me detention when I was snogging in that very same corridor when I was a fifth year and now she's ruining my fantasies! When I get my hands on her, I'm going to-"

Her door was thrown open by Professor I-Don't-Know-His-Name-But-He's-Kinda-Cute, and Pansy squealed again. He had his wand drawn and some serious bed-head. His wand-free hand was out in front of him and his glasses were missing, so Pansy suspected he might not be seeing very well.

"Where is it?" he shouted. "I'll get it." His wand shot off and Pansy threw herself back on the bed just in the nick of time. A red streak of magic missed her by inches.

"What the fuck are you trying to do? Take my bloody head off?"

She grabbed for her mop, propped against the wall beside her bed and cast a _lumos_. In the dim light, he looked quite puzzled. "I'm saving you, of course."

"Saving me by taking off my head!"

"Well, I—I mean—Oy! You screamed. This is your fault! Don't scream like you're dying if you aren't!" He went on the defensive.

"What time is it?" Pansy demanded.

"Around three. Why?" he replied.

"Because your room is on the complete opposite side of the castle. What are you doing outside my room? And dear Merlin, do you have penguins on your jim-jams?"

He pulled his dressing gown tight around him. "No." His reply lacked conviction. "I do not." A spark shot out of his wand and the penguins jumped off his pyjamas and waddled out of the room. "Damn, that spell never works right. I was always pants at transfiguration."

Pansy couldn't stifle her giggle. "Penguins? Really? Boy, some fantasy man you turned out to be. Talk about disappointments. I mean I can't even—"

"Fantasy man? Do come again, won't you?"

Pansy's giggles ceased immediately. "Fancy. I said _fancy_man. Yeah, that's it. You need to clean out those ears of yours, Boob Boy. You're hearing things!"

"Yeah, I specifically _heard_ you say _fantasy man_."

"You wish."

"Do not! And my name's not Boob Boy. My name doesn't have 'boob' anywhere in it. My name, for your information, is Terry."

That was good to know, she'd file that away for future dreams. "Why are you near my room?" Pansy demanded. "You should be in your own room on the other side of the school, not over here trying to kill people with your bad aim and your ridiculous penguins."

"I'm fairly certain my penguins aren't lethal, though it's quite possible that I might die of embarrassment that you saw them."

Without invitation, Terry staggered over to her bed and sat down on the edge putting his head in his hands. "Fuck, I hate this job. I hate the kids. I hate the school. I hate the staff. And for the record, the pay sucks, so I hate that too. You're lucky you're not teaching. Those kids, they're just beasts."

"I am a witch with a magic broom and a cat. Can you say cliché? I really hope you're not coming to me for sympathy. Also, if you cry your alligator tears on the floor, you're cleaning those up. I'm off the clock." Pansy leaned back against her pillow. "Ever feel like we drew the short straws, Terry?" The name sounded nice on her lips; it would sound good when she was saying it in her dreams as she dug her nails into his back and arched into his touch and—her nipples were hardening at her torrid thoughts.

"Sometimes. Um, a lot. I always thought being a professor would be rewarding. I like teaching people things."

"Helps if they're actually listening."

"Yeah, there's that," Terry conceded. "I can't seem to get their attention at all."

Pansy shrugged. "I'd hex their little bits off."

He smiled, and it was such a winning smile that Pansy felt her heart flip over a little bit. "I've considered it; don't tell anyone." He pressed a finger to his nicely shaped mouth in a shushing motion.

She returned the smile. "Your secret's safe with me."

"You don't act much like a Slytherin."

_And it always came back to that._"See, just when I start to think you might be a decent bloke, you go and say something stupid." She gave him a shove with her foot that threw him off balance and toppled him to the floor. "Get out of my room."

"But I didn't—" her pillow smacked him in the face. "Okay, then." He left with a muttered apology, and Pansy punched the one pillow that remained on her bed several times before falling into a fitful sleep.

_The dream was more intense this time. She was almost ashamed at how much it seemed like one of those romance novels in the back section of Flourish & Blotts. There was a fireplace and a silky blanket and she was beneath it with Terry (it was nice to have a name this time) above her, his bare back was glistening with sweat as she ran her hands down his spine, then back up over his shoulders._

"Tell me what you want, love," Terry said.

Ah, a man who actually cared what she wanted, rather than one who made some ridiculous comment about her house affiliation. Men were so much better when they weren't allowed to control their own vocal chords; they only messed things up.

"I want to be kissed and touched and held and—" He cut her off with a breathtaking kiss, his tongue sliding into her mouth. He didn't need direction, her dream man. He touched her in all the right places, said all the right things and sent her spiralling into an orgasm that blew her mind.

She stroked his hair and ran her fingertips over the contours of his face

… then she woke up smiling.

She hugged her pillow, sated and happy, fingers damp and skin still tingling, and rolled to a more comfortable position… then screamed like a banshee. One of Terry's penguins was perched on her bed, less than a foot from her face, staring at her.

She never even stopped for her dressing gown or her mop/broom. She ran barefoot through the castle corridors, and didn't stop until she reached Terry's suite of rooms, where she flung open the door without bothering to knock. He was in the bed with his hand beneath the covers doing things that he clearly meant to do in private, and he jumped out of the bed starkers when she flew through the door, attempting to wrap a blanket around his waist.

"What the hell?" Terry exclaimed.

"Mad penguin on the loose!" Pansy slammed his door and dove into the bed, pulling his sheet up to her chin.

"What are you doing?"

She looked at him with wide eyes and she lowered her voice. "That thing was watching me. I think it loves me or wants to murder me or something. You never can tell with penguins. They're tricksy, you know." She nodded, adding emphasis to the truth of her theory.

"You can't stay here."

Pansy grasped the sheet firmly to her. "You can't seriously expect me to go back to my room with that thing walking about free."

"Well—" Terry was still attempting to cover himself with the one blanket he'd managed to yank from the bed before Pansy crawled into it.

"Not happening. You created the little beasts; you deal with them."

"Tonight?"

"No, I think it can wait until morning." Pansy rolled over and turned her back to him. She heard the rustle of clothing as Terry pulled on pyjamas, and then she felt the weight of the mattress as it sank beneath Terry's weight. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

"Um, getting into my bed."

"I'm in your bed."

"And?"

"And I'm a proper lady, and you'll treat me like one. Slytherin or not. You got that?"

"So what am I supposed to do?"

She handed him a pillow and the blanket he'd put back on the bed when he'd climbed into it. "Here. That chair in the corner looks like a good place for you to sleep."

He sighed, but took direction rather well. The room grew quiet and Pansy thought he had gone to sleep when he said her name. "Yeah?" she responded.

"Do proper ladies go on dates?"

She smiled in the darkness. "They do."

"Next weekend's a Hogsmeade weekend, and I was thinking maybe we could go to Madame Puddifoot's. You know, for tea or something."

"You and me?" she asked.

"Yeah, and I promise to leave the penguins behind."

"You realise I'm completely out of your league, right? I mean when we were in school, I was pretty and popular and I'd never have given you the time of day."

"Duly noted. I'll meet you at the front door of the castle at half-three." Terry was making noise as he tried to get comfortable in the chair.

"You're buying." Pansy could feel her hands shaking a bit and was thankful for the darkness.

"I'm told that's what _fantasy men_do."

She was speechless for a moment, which only made Terry's chuckles seem that much louder in the room. "Prat," she said, before chucking her pillow at his head.

"Oh good, this one was pretty flat. This one's nice and fluffy. I needed an extra. G'night, Pansy."

"G'night, Boob."


End file.
